Art of Turning

There’s a certain peace in simply letting go—like slipping from the clutches of an off-key melody forced upon us by self-anointed conductors. Their insistent beat fades, the dust they stirred settling at last.

Politicians are deft in their craft, skilled at luring us to pour out what’s ours—our time, our breath, our guarded trust. They arrive as saviours, noble on the surface, yet each plea draws us further into their need. There’s charm in their smiles, but it’s a charm that drains.

And so, voting loses its gleam of hope, becoming instead a kind of quiet vigilance. It isn’t a matter of “the good” but rather, the one less likely to ask for too much. The simple stroke of a pen becomes a soft defiance, an acknowledgement of veiled intentions.

Then, there are the crowned elites, adorning themselves in thin-worn grandeur. They set out to bind our loyalty, claiming the hours of our days, taking even what we give unwittingly. Yet beneath, their words lie slick and empty, their thrones built of air. Casting your choice becomes a private refusal, a small but certain stand.

When these “leaders” finally shed their masks, watch closely. Beneath the lights they seek, they appear as hollow lanterns—glowing only for a moment, then crumbling to dim. They are the big players, each one craving our gaze, hoping to bind us to their whims. But the threads are thin if you let yourself see them.

So, step aside. With a slight, knowing smile, let the noise ebb. In the silence that follows, something else stirs—a calm, a sense of what was always there. Slowly, the urge to grasp their promises slips away. In releasing their illusions, you discover a softer freedom, a gentle clarity.

Here, at last, you see without their veils, the quiet place where you watch them clinging to the very mirages they spin. Maybe you feel a twinge of compassion, maybe a touch of humour. Either way, you stand free of their games.

With each choice, each quiet step, you return to yourself. Their illusions hold no sway because you’ve seen through them. Like the eye within a storm, there you are—still, steady, while shadows swirl beyond reach. And there you remain, anchored in what they cannot touch, unbound as they dance and clamour.

Let them shout, let them shine. You are here, centred and untouched.

Something musical